some of them sealed by heavy doors. At one of these, containing a
narrow window, Pierre knocked. The door opened and I stood in the
presence of the Brigadier Bompard.

"The American gentleman," announced Pierre, relieving me of my gun.

The brigadier bowed, looked me over sharply, and bade me enter.

"At your service, monsieur," he said coldly, waving his big freckled
hand toward a chair drawn up to a fat little stove blushing under a
forced draft.

"At yours, monsieur," I returned, bowed, and took my seat.

Then there ensued a dead silence, Pierre standing rigid behind my chair,
the brigadier reseated back of a desk littered with official papers.

For some moments he sat writing, his savage gray eyes scanning the page,
the ends of his ferocious moustache twitching nervously as his pen
scratched on. Back of his heavy shoulders ran a shelf supporting a row
of musty ledgers, and above a stout chest in one corner was a rack of
gleaming carbines.

The silence became embarrassing. Still the pen scratched on. Was he
writing my death-warrant, I wondered nervously, or only a milder order
for my arrest? It was a relief when he finally sifted a spoonful of fine
blue sand over the document, poured the remaining grains back into their
receptacle, puffed out his coarse red jowls, emitted a grunt of
approval, and raised his keen eyes to mine.

"A thousand pardons, monsieur," I began, "for being where I assure you I
would not have been had I known exactly where I was."

"So monsieur is fond of the chase of the hare?" he asked, with a grim
smile.

"So fond, Monsieur le Brigadier," I replied, "that my enthusiasm has, as
you see, led me thoughtlessly into your private territory. I beg of you
to accept my sincere apologies."

He reached back of him, took down one of the musty ledgers, and began to
turn the leaves methodically. From where I sat I saw his coarse
forefinger stop under a head-line.

"Smeeth, Berkelek," he muttered, and read on down the page. "Citizen of
_Amerique du Nord_.

"Height--medium.

"Age--forty-one.

"Hair--auburn.

"Eyes--brown.

"Chin and frontal--square.

"No scars."

"Would your excellency like to see my hunting permit and description?" I
ventured.

"Unnecessary--it is in duplicate here," he returned curtly, and his eyes
again reverted to the ledger. Then he closed the book, rose, and drawing
his chair to the stove planted his big fists on his knees.

I began to breathe normally.